WanderingSoul96,"Since the Dancer is a descendant of Gwyn, are you planning to use this in the story?"
("Oh, dearest sister..")
Also, what the FUCK. The Dancer's cutscene audio is reversed. And holy shit, the real files are nightmare fuel. In light of this, I started this off a bit quick, and have made some changes to the story later on. I think, for those whom enjoy dark tales, you will be interested.
Wrenching the blade from the armored chest of the Knight clad in silver armor before her, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley slowly allowed the corpse to clink and shift downwards amongst the now painted ground. He lay only but a few yards away from his guard-brother; yet another mindless, monotone, patrol ended. After stepping over the corpse, she pondered over the torn cloth that these Knights bore- the sigil made of golden lining rather familiar. She couldn't quite place a time or location on seeing this, but in a past life, perhaps she had been well acquainted with such? It bore no importance for the time being however- more pressing matters beginning to swap over her.
Stepping into the mass chamber housing nothing but old, wooden, seats upon the edges of the cathedral among candelabras, a darkness swept over the lithe woman. And not just by the lack of lighting. In that moment, she felt.. Burdened. Observed. Unsafe, unhinged, disturbed- some horrid amalgam of nightmares, blood curdling screams, and drowned pain originating from the simple sight of the gentle blue glow of the cathedral's ornate stained window above the entrance. The Dancer slowly lowered herself to her knees, blades all but forgotten as they clattered against the solid stone beneath- echoing throughout the occupied chamber. She pressed her gauntlets against the side of her head- curling up into a small ball despite her high stature- trying to muffle and drown out the manic laughter that filled her head.
And, like the brush of wind past an idle flame, the addled memories of the Dancer's mind ceased immediately- with little to no trace that they were even true; leaving behind a rather shaken Irithillian. Her breathing echoed loudly in the chamber, resounding with every deep inhale in forced exhale through the thin visor. A woman at the far end of this chamber spoke whilst sitting her a wooden chair- her voice old, ragged, and withered. But it carried an inquisitive tone that forced the Dancer into a bitter state of mind.
"Often times, the largest challenges we face are our own judgement. What say you, Unkindled?"